


Something We Can Do

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-01
Updated: 2009-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:51:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8723998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Past Sam's hulking size and his anger, past Dean's incongruous fear and sentimentalism, they are each one pure and exquisite facet of the other. Dean is Sam's brother, and Sam is Dean's, and in that space, they discover something they can do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Something We Can Do**

It's been. What. Shit. Three years since he's been this plastered. Four. Five. He can't remember. He's lost count of all their hellish jobs, of all the miles logged on the Impala's odometer, of all the Walmart t-shirts Dean's bloodied and tossed and replaced with credit he has no intention of repaying.

 

How long has it been since he's seen the hallowed hallways of his university, anyway? Someone else's university. Sam isn't a fucking college boy. Not anymore. Was he? Ever?

 

He's drunk. He's liquored up. Hammered. Gooned. Pissed. Wasted. He's three sheets to the wind, and that one's his personal favourite, and _fuck_ , he's maudlin.

 

He's trying not to blink too slowly. Not quite drunk enough to be happily satiate and haplessly carefree. No. 'Course not. Just drunk enough, really, to feel that stinging desire way down in the pit of his gut, and maybe a bit more than that – maybe enough to worry that Dean might feel it, too. The way Sam wants him now.

 

There's this odd, giddy, raucous joy that bubbles up in Dean after he's had a few. Dean imbibes far more often than does Sam. It's a fine balance. After one or two he's amped up and angry and raring for a fight. He doesn't drink before hunts – not ever – but Sam knows he would if he could. He drinks at bars, though. At clubs. At poolhalls. He drinks one or two and the dark rage roils up in his blood and veins pop and skin burns hot and he just fucking _kills it_. Anyone who beats him at billiards, cheats him at cards, warns him off some bottle-blonde piece of property – stares overlong at Sammy, _God_ forbid – is fair game and it's open season. Luckily Dean has a responsible baby brother to leash him when the occassion calls for it.

 

But when Dean pushes past that first hot and fast punch of alcohol in his bloodstream, moves on through his third and fourth drink, he is a different animal.

 

Sparking with mirth and merry with the simple, free appeal of intoxication. He walks deliberately, heavily, but with a predatory, liquid determination that Sam has always found off-putting. He is preternaturally graceful, Dean – alluring in those dark and loaded movements. Sam feels like a bumbling, incompetent giant by comparison. Huge and ungainly. Impossibly long-limbed and ludicrous.

 

_Christ_ , he's maudlin. He's beyond drunk and Dean is pushing right up against him, now, helping him into their motel room, and how in the hell? The last thing he remembers was Dean sharking some poor, inbred bastard at an impromptu, low-stakes poker table. Half cut and sagging in his leather, Dean still schooled that sorry bitch and despite the fact that he pleaded on behalf of a pregnant wife and a school-aged son in need of winter boots, Dean ravaged his last red cent – took the kid's milk money, too – and grinned all the way out of the bar...

 

And ah, there is it. The memory. Seeping back in, little by little. Sam remembers leaving because he remembers that winning smirk on Dean's perfect lips. He remembers marvelling at how Dean's expression can become so Christ-awfully sunny when he's screwed a good man. There is something deeply unnerving about that, but also, well. Dean is the man John raised. He's also the man who bandages Sam's wounds, carries him home after a hard night out – despite their gross weight disparity – hushes him with a soothing caress during a nightmare, even after all these years, and _goes to Hell for him_ , for God's sake. A fact which Sam was only too willing to piss back into his brother's face.

 

This is why it has been so very long since Sam imbibed to such a damning extent.

 

He sees Dean's infallibility everywhere he looks. And everywhere he looks, he sees his own corruption.

 

Still, here they are, as drunk as teenage troublemakers at prom (whatever _that's_ like), and Dean is tossing his room key on the bedside table and shuffling Sam into the bed nearest the window. It's sweet this way, Sam figures dimly, as he has control over the AC unit mounted on the wall.

 

He pours himself under the sheets with Dean's assistance, but the warm press of his brother is suddenly gone, and Sam blinks curiously, stupidly, and then he can hear the flow of water shutting down in the bathroom, and Dean is right back with him, white towel slung low over damp hips, toothbrush protruding from foamy lips, and no time has passed at all.

 

“Mm drunk.”

 

It's the first thing he's said in what feels like hours. His mouth is a wad of cotton and his tongue is burning where it pushes against his teeth. He can't seem to rise from his bed, but he flails a bit, limbs sodden and rebellious. Two-hundred thread count? Motherfuckers.

 

“I'd never have guessed. Lightweight,” Dean answers from the bathroom, and Sam can hear him rinsing, spitting, and then the room is awash in a cheap yellow glow as he emerges wearing familiar cotton pants, leaves the light on.

 

Dean's voice is a pleasant thrum in counterpoint to his own heartbeat, and Sam can feel those ridiculous dimples forming in his cheeks, that silly, stupid smile growing on his face.

 

“Dean?”

 

“Yeah, buddy.” Sam's eyes are firmly closed, and the room is spinning now, and bright, bright red, but he can smell the soap-fresh scent of his brother, moving, and he can tell from the change in pitch and inflection that Dean's focus has shifted.

 

“You on the laptop?”

 

“Mmm. Sleep it off, Sammy.”

 

Sam can't ever remember Dean using the laptop without him. He's shocked his brother even knows how, considering. Then again, maybe he doesn't. Maybe he's just going to open a browser and sift through Sam's favourites for something to occupy his time. That's good; that's fine.

 

Then again, maybe he's going to sift through Sam's recent history. Neither good nor fine.

 

But weighing the odds that Dean could possibly figure that shit out against the heavy pull of the mattress against his back, Sam opts for rest and weighted peace and the frenetic stillness only a firm drunk can bring.

 

A simultaneously tiny and lengthy amount of time passes while Sam drifts to the _clickclickclicking_ of Dean's fingers on his keyboard, and Sam has this just fucked feeling that his own soul is floating above the surface of his frame, that he can see everything happening in the room from all angles, and all he notices is his awareness of Dean's crystaline brilliance, of the glittering, reflective beauty of the sweat on his brow, the saliva on his lower lip, the web-like threads of precome that connect his cock to his golden palm as he fists himself quietly.

 

Sam is so loaded he can't tell when to speak now or forever hold his peace. A failing that has always come only too easily to his brother. Still. He's.

 

“Dean...?” He's so laid-out it's like he's not even a real person anymore. He loves that. He misses that. He hasn't been this gonzo in years. He's maybe not sure he's _ever_ done, but still there's a sweet simplicity to the way his brother's name just bleeds out across his tongue and over licked-damp lips and the happy citrus aftermath of a half dozen shots of tequila.

 

“ _Sammy_.” Dean sighs his name and Sam isn't sure if it's a plea or a plea for silence. He couldn't care less, really, and when he tries and fails to push himself up off the bed and join his brother, he just shrugs internally and giggles at his own miscalculation.

 

“Sam?” Dean sounds genuinely concerned now, and he's pulling the headphones off and shifting in his chair – that piece of shit – and Sam laughs harder still. “You okay?”

 

“Mm drunk, Dean-o. 'Course I'm okay. Just thinkin' about how, if I were straight enough to get up out of this bed, you'd fucking lay me out right now. Pfft. Straight enough.”

 

Dean pushes up out of his chair, closing the laptop abruptly, but he regains his seat when Sam waves him off. There is a nervous purpose creeping into his movement, now. A foul and insidious beast Sam knows as Sobriety. If he could salt and burn that treacherous motherfucker, he would.

 

“Sam?”

 

“'Sam? Sam? _Sam_?' Say my name in that concerned _fucking_ voice one more time and I'll gut you like a fish.”

 

Sam isn't even joking, and woah, who invited the Harsh? This level of malevolence is rare on Sam and settles down poorly across his bulky frame. He doesn't like the way it wears. Hates it. He's ashamed. Regretful. Even a little afraid.

 

But there is no articulation. Nothing heart-felt or eloquent or _real_ enough to convey his sincere apology. For everything. No words he hasn't already tried. And he's drunk and reeling and his heart is fucking full to bursting and Dean is just there across the room sitting blankly at an empty table and his soft cock is sticky in his pants and Sam can _smell_ him, and holy shit, there just aren't words.

 

“S... little brother? You okay?”

 

Sam snorts, but it's an act, and he can't quite put his finger on why he bothered. Welling up in his chest is this great big balloon of pride and familial affection over the fact that Dean called him 'brother' and not 'Sammy', because honestly, he didn't want to have to dismember Dean tonight. Hiding the bits and pieces of his corpse would have been a son of a bitch in his inebriated state, and really, Sam can think of better things to do with Dean's body.

 

“C'mere.”

 

Okay, so Sam's like 99% sure this isn't even real anymore. He's dead or passed out or asleep and dreaming and the real Dean would _never_ abandon that militaristic alertness and come like a puppy to his outstretched palm and just stand there, obedient, awaiting direction, a glassy, cold, still-half-drunk-and-crazy look pushing up from behind earthy green eyes.

 

When Dean is within touching distance, by God, Sam touches. At first he just clasps his brother's hand, and it's one sibling to the next, though maybe a bit too sweet – tender and full of meaning but also a little clammy and uncomfortable, and there's that inexplicable sweaty urgency behind it all.

 

But when Dean strokes his thumb up along the inside of Sam's wrist, it's fucking on. He draws his brother a little closer, pulling him down onto the mattress, and Dean catches his balance just above Sam's shoulder, pushing himself up and wriggling into a sitting position. As if he were a private nurse. As if he were the hired help.

 

But at least he hasn't let go of Sam's hand. There is that.

 

“Touch me again, Dean. Like you were.”

 

Sam smiles when he feels the pad of Dean's thumb press into his palm, brush up along his wrist, trailing veins slowly up to the inside of his elbow. Sam squeezes his arm, trapping Dean's thumb there for a minute, and he actually almost laughs. Doesn't know why. He chases it for a moment, loses it, and then Dean is tracing his path back down, adding more fingers to the task, moving them in soft figure-eights.

 

Sam can't take his eyes off of Dean's lips. They're pursed into a little moue of determination, as if this small portion of concentration is all his brother's gin-soaked consciousness can mete out in one go, and they're a bit wet because he keeps licking them, and Sam wishes he could lick them, too.

 

“What were you doing? On the laptop. What were you.” Jesus, Sam's brain is addled. He's starting to feel that panicky twist in his guts like he might not ever sober up, might be stuck like this, half-baked brain just spewing forth every ill-formed and often private thought he might ever have until the end of time.

 

“I think you know.” Dean's voice is completely unreadable. He's not joking. He's not disappointed. And really, those are the only two Deans Sam is familiar with lately.

 

“Show me?” Sam doesn't expect Dean to respond in any meaningful way. At best, he'll tease him. Sam can tell by the set of his shoulders that his brother is still inclined toward joviality. Still caught up in the last vestiges of a decent bender. Concern has dampened his spirits a bit, though, and Sam understands his own complicity in that. He knows he can remedy the situation if he can just sit up and... there it is. Elbows sturdy. Spins dissipating. Blinking still unusually slow, but hey: two out of three ain't bad.

 

Dean snorts, smiles, and pushes up off the bed, heading for the laptop. He gathers it and returns to Sam's side, nudging him so there's room enough for the two of them to sit shoulder to shoulder. Sam is still mostly lying down, propped up against the headboard, and Dean slouches into his space, opening the computer between them and navigating to the site he'd been looking at when he figured Sam was down for the count.

 

It's just a variation on the theme Sam anticipated. Honey-blonde bimbo with scarred up tits and bad skin takes it up the ass from some oily, barrel-chested fuck.

 

He looks over at Dean, incredulous, drunkenly struggling to process the impossibility of this woman's pleasure, and he scrambles to mute the volume before turning to his brother.

 

“And this does it for you?” he asks. Dean shrugs, grunts 'sure', and his hand is toying with the drawstring on his sleep-pants, and holy _shit_ , he was going to beat it right here while they were in bed. Together. Still might – if Sam can shut his goddamn mouth and turn the volume up and just hold his breath and pray Dean doesn't notice he's there. 

 

But Sam's a fucking idiot. “Doesn't,” he mumbles, and Dean looks over at him, grins, pretty white teeth sharp behind lips Sam still wants on him.

 

“S'matter, Sammy? Barbie here not doing it for you?”

 

“Not doing it for _you_. By the looks of things. Either.” Sam looks meaningfully down at Dean's lap – just to emphasize his point – and shit. What a terrible idea. Whose idea was it, anyway, for Sam to eye his brother's cock through his PJs and _comment_ on the state of his... holy crap. What a Christ-awful idea. And why is he still looking? Why isn't he looking away, back up to his brother's face, where this conversation is actually taking place – hello – and not at... well.

 

Sam can hardly remember where this train of thought was going. Something about Dean getting hard? And yeah, that was it. That was the point. Dean should be hard. He's pretty sure.

 

“Can I? Can I just. I want to show you something – you know – else.” Sam drags the laptop to his chest with heavy hands, letting the headboard take the weight off his elbows, and it puts one hell of a kink in his neck, but it doesn't take him long to find what he's looking for. A quick dash through his recent history produces a website he's pretty sure Dean is too drunk to properly execute him for navigating. Pretty sure.

 

When the video plays, it's not too uncomfortably familiar. The dark-haired one is older than his partner, for one. And they're perfectly equal in size. The hair colour is off on the other. A little too blonde. But his mouth is a gorgeous cupid's bow of charged-up sexual heat, and when he swallows the brunet, his lips are just impossible, and the brunet smiles down at the back of his head with this endearing fondness that just has to be real, and small dimples form in his cheeks before passion overtakes him and he throws back his head and moans.

 

“These... Sammy. These are dudes.” Dean's voice is absolutely blown. His eyes are rivetted, his mouth agape, his brows lost somewhere in his hairline. Sam can sense a full-on belly laugh starting to bubble up in his brother's chest, the kind that has always brought Sam down along with it, no matter how resistent to humour he can get sometimes. But there's something else there, too. Dean's fingers are still idly twisting his drawstring, and Sam knows full well Dean can see out of his peripheral vision that his little brother is not focussed on the laptop at all. Not by a long shot. Hasn't been these several minutes, and still, Dean's hand dips down to press against a burgeoning erection that was not there before.

 

He palms himself a few times, licks his lips again, and he's hardly even blinking now, but there's still a wicked gleam in his eye and an odd set to his jaw and Sam knows that he could burst out laughing at any moment, and Sam actually begins to feel dizzy before he realises that he's holding his breath.

 

Dean hasn't even looked his way. Even though it couldn't be more obvious that Sam is blatantly staring at him now, tracking every flicker of his eyes across the scene playing out before them.

 

The wet, slapping sound of flesh on flesh tells Sam that the video has progressed to penetration, and he's not sure anymore how much time has passed. Maybe eight minutes. And he can't look away – even though this is the part that made him blow his load into one of Dean's old and bloody t-shirts last week – because Dean's hand has wormed its way into his pants, now, and he's stroking himself slowly in extended, sure movements, and the humour is gone from his face but the animated shock remains, and then finally, _finally_ he turns to meet Sam's eyes and whispers, “ _Dude_!” like they're sharing the most scandalous secret in the world.

 

That makes Sam happy. It makes him chuckle. He wants to put his hands on himself now, too, but his mind is fucking _addled_ , has been, just is, and from a thousand miles away he watches his palm drift up and snake across Dean's thigh, batting his hand away from its busy task.

 

He can't bear the thought of looking at Dean's face right now. He's too drunk to suss out what he knows he'll see there, anyway. So instead he figures he's in for a penny at this point and pulls Dean's elastic waistband down over his erection, freeing it, loving the way it snaps back up against his belly, wanting to laugh over the giddy high it gives him just to be the one sharing a bed with Dean while all this is happening.

 

When he reaches for it, Dean sucks in a wet breath, and he hesitates, fingers opening and closing impotently. His chin drops to his chest and his hand drops to Dean's thigh, and he exhales, and he feels the sudden overbearing weight of drunkeness rush up to claim him. He needs to sleep. He needs _this_ so badly right now he feels on the verge of tears. He can't look his brother in the eye. He wants to get his lips around that cock and his fingers between these thighs – and he kneads the muscle and feels it hard and thrumming with Dean's pulse beneath his palm – and he could just die from the shame of it. Or from the desperate want of it.

 

He's so defeated and raw he even feels sorry for himself, but only the space of several of Dean's manic heartbeats pass before his brother's hand is on the back of his head, guiding him closer to that beautiful prize, and then pushing his chin up so their eyes meet. And it's as awful as Sam worried it would be because this isn't Joking Dean and this isn't Disappointed Dean. So what the hell Dean is this?

 

“We can do _this_ , Sammy,” he whispers. “This is something we can do.”

 

And – oh. He's still not sure what Dean this is, but this Dean will feed Sam his cock and moan so prettily as he takes it down and swallows the tang and the shower-fresh moisture and gets to work sucking shakily and rolling his tongue along every tiny ridge.

 

This Dean pushes himself back against the headboard, kicks his pants all the way off, and sort of grunts – but it's more like a heady, heavy breath – and he says Sam's name, too, only he calls him Sammy – fucking Dean – and it's _SammySammySammy_ , and really, what's so bad about that? In fact there's something desperate about it. Something Sam never registered before, but it's always been there. It's part fear – of the loss of his brother, and of the failure of John's charge – and part worship. And – _what_? 

 

As Sam draws the length and taste of Dean into him, surrounds himself with the musky flavour of his brother's arousal, even dares, in this wasted place between worlds, to trace with his hands a lazy figure-eight through the come leaking from Dean's cock and then press that finger forcefully between those perfect fucking lips, he can't help but wonder – _what_?

 

Because there has been a carefully contrived and constructed balance between them since they were boys. Dean is John's son: the warrior, the hero, the vigilante and the brave. The one who never backs down, never fails, never _ever_ comes in second. He's the clever one, the quick one, the beautiful one. Dean is the one who shoots from the hip, takes without asking, charms his way into the pockets of the nameless faces they encounter.

 

And Sam. He's the academic, sure. The quiet one. The suffering-in-silence little brother of a man so lovely even the angels in Heaven follow him around. The brilliant mind. The cerebral, responsible mechanic of the operation. Sam is the one who keeps things cohesive: keeps them sane. On the flipside, he's also the unpredictable one. The variable element in the Winchester equation. 

 

But above and beyond all of it, past Sam's hulking size and his anger, past Dean's incongruous fear and sentimentalism, they are each one pure and exquisite facet of the other. Dean is Sam's brother, and Sam is Dean's.

 

And truly, in what waking world can they fit together just as they do right now? Just so. Just perfectly. 

 

In a plainly perfect one. 

 

And since that Eden doesn't exist – not really and never at all – Sam ruts against his brother's knee as he laps at the salty precome and barely notices the heady corruption of the deed because he's so focussed on Dean's angelic, filthy mouth – so far away, now, and out of sight if not out of mind – and he wonders if the world will even bother to follow when he spirals outside of it and comes undone. And from the way Dean is groaning and pushing his head down, down, so that Sam gags a little and around his mouthful mutters, ' _harder_ ' like it's his first word, all gruff and breathless, he figures probably not.

 

And he couldn't care less and he just wants and wants and _wants_. 

 

And he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dean is going to fuck him tonight. And it's a speedy progression, sure, from zero to there in ten seconds flat, but they're brothers. And they're Winchesters. And they're hunters. And lovers. And men. Sam _wants_. He can't be bothered with the seduction he'd normally insist upon. They've spent a lifetime together, he and Dean. Bathing together. Bandaging one another's wounds. They've touched and stroked and kissed for comfort before; they're kin. There is nothing different about what's happening now. Nothing other than everything, that is.

 

And Sam can't get enough, and Dean is really crying, now, true saltwater tears rushing into his mouth, down his chin – Sam can feel them collecting on the back of his hand – and he's panting, too, and the word ' _Sammy_ ' keeps pouring out between gasping sobs like water, like blood spilled, but Sam can't let up and just can't resist the urge to pull his fingers from Dean's mouth, ghostly pale and reverant against his red, red lips, and thrust them, spit-slick and relentless, between his brother's legs. Stroking that dark and sensitive place.

 

Breaching it. And now he's done something he maybe never should have done. Ventured into a shadow-black rabbit hole from which few people in his position have ever returned. They're brothers.

 

He knows he has his sanity to lose. He knows he risks the moral high ground. He couldn't care less. Hasn't ever been able to muster the decency to care. He is his father's son. And in tiny ways he's Azazel's, too. It's a maddening balance. One mitigated by Dean's bright, bright light. By the shine and brilliance and _perfection_ of Dean.

 

Being inside him is the closest Sam has ever felt to God.

 

No thing in Heaven or on Earth could make Sam withdraw from his rightful place inside Dean. No creature of incredible or infinite strength could possibly have prompted him to pull away, to kneel up and sigh and twist his head from side to side, cracking the bones there and distracting himself from the perfect heat that is Dean.

 

No angel or demon or monstrous or heavenly body in sight, that is, save for Dean himself. Sam knows what he really wants to give his brother.

 

And though Dean is begging, now, and the laptop is perched precariously and the brothers Winchester have all but forgotten its existence and cling to each other in a silent battle of will, each praying for and perhaps dreading the dominance of the other, Sam can't possibly prevail. He can't possibly lose.

 

In this, Sam must bow his head and defer. And win. So he leans up a bit, strips off his clothing, pushes the laptop to the floor, eyes never leaving Dean, hands itching to get back there.

 

Because despite Sam's smarts, his looks, his abilities, Dean is just. Superior. Perfect. Dean is everything Sam's ever wanted and ever wanted to become. Respect and worship and true love have become totally blurred and just _fucked_ for Sam, and now, as he pushes his own fingers to the back of his throat, gagging just a little and nearly coming over the taste of Dean's insides, he sees his whole life spread out before his eyes for what it really was: a trial run for this moment.

 

And so there is nothing Sam can do but roll over onto his back and drag Dean with him, and though their eyes meet and there is just _nothing_ left to be said, he murmurs, 'I need you, Dean; fuck me' and 'Hurt me' (though he's not even sure where that came from), and Dean obliges. On both counts.

 

But it isn't easy. Despite a lifetime of intimacy, there's an awkward, shuffling disharmony to their coming together. Dean's weight above him is perfect in the way it hovers and settles and just lingers there along the planes of his ribs, his hips, his cock. Their breath mingles and the moisture gathers between them, building up toward something epic, but it's as if their bodies don't yet know what that might be.

 

But their hearts do. Sam can feel Dean's beating against his in exquisite rhythm – in step. And when their eyes meet there's a surety there, and a lifelong longing that damps down and stamps out any question that might exist about whether or not this is okay – _might_ exist, but doesn't. Because as they fumble their way toward bliss in one another's arms, Sam is acutely aware that his whole setup has been completely unnecessary. Dean's eyes are glassy and glowing and his lips are wet and red and he is rock hard and huge and every muscle in him is aching for the answering press of Sam's, and this moment has been a long time coming for both of them.

 

There's a certain lonely satisfaction in that for Sam. But there is no time, now, to dwell in dark places and sweep the cobwebs from his soul. In this moment, as in all others, really, but more fully and viscerally, Sam is Dean's.

 

And he can't fucking believe the way they fit together and how demurely Dean bares his throat so Sam can suck it. It's impossible that Dean might drag Sam's legs up so that he is spread across their bed – _their_ bed? – and open in a way he has never, ever even imagined he might be, and yet here it is. Happening. This is happening. This is something they can do.

 

Several moments pass, maybe eight? Maybe only seconds. Eight, Sam is pretty sure. And he realises the flurry of heat and movement and the desperate coming together has stilled. Stopped completely. And when he can finally refocus, Dean is staring down at him in this lost and hazy way, his eyes wandering across Sam's bellybutton and hip bones, down to his cock, widening briefly to accompany the imperceptible shake of his head, and finally disappearing into the shadowy place behind him, within him, and for fuck's sake, is Sam _blushing_? It's pathetic, really. He is such a douche.

 

Still, no depth of shame can possibly maintain its hold in the face of Dean's husky voice ghosting across all the right places in a sultry litany of whisper from which Sam can glean only a single phrase: “Sammy, I'm sorry; I have to.”

 

And before Sam can even muster the coherent energy to question him, Dean has dropped down on the bed and draped Sam's impossibly long legs over his shoulders and his tongue is just what in the holy fuck.

 

Definitely never thought he'd experience the way the word 'Sammy' feels from the inside out. But here it is. And it's perfect. It's just right. It's enough. And not nearly. Because there is so much more to Sam than this localized inferno. There are soaring, silent planes and still waters and searing, scorching depths. And they all exist because of and for Dean, and he is the master of them all and the sole inhabitant of the darkest and softest corners of Sam's soul. 

 

His mind has really run wild on him, now, and this moment has become all shade and metaphor because it just _can't_ be happening. But it is, and Dean's tongue is deep inside him, because there never has been anything tentative about his older brother. Sam's never done this before. He is in awe of the fury of Dean's thrusting, the way his big hands – like a doll's beneath Sam's – press against the backs of Sam's thighs. Dean's face is a lurid, sticky mess: nose, lips, chin all slick with saliva and sweat, and when he breaks for just a moment to take a bracing breath, (and it's a physical imperative only; there is nothing of Dean in that choice, and Sam can see that the loss of contact is killing him), their eyes meet for just an instant.

 

And Dean is barely there at all. Sure, there's that glossy sheen of pure desire and unmitigated _need_ , but mostly Dean is still in Sam, drifting there within him, drowning, becoming whole, and Sam can see in his eyes that he is utterly lost to this. 

 

That makes Sam feel sick and raw with power. In fact he is quaking with the purity of it. Dean is pushing two fingers into him now, and Sam feels like he owns the fucking world. He thrusts up towards Dean's mouth, which earns him a throaty chuckle he is just so damned _proud_ of, and pushes down and forward into this unique invasion. It's not quite pleasant, this feeling of being filled and full of Dean, but it's pleasurable. Sam wants more.

 

“Do it,” he grunts. It's not pretty. All the beauty in this room – in the entirety of the world itself – is radiating from his brother, now, and Sam is an overgrown, ugly thing in the face of the astonishing gift of Dean's light, but at the same time he is redeemed by it and made precious in its reflection. Such is the impact that Dean has – that this moment has – on Sam's reality. And nothing is ever going to be the same.

 

But _fuck_ , awareness fits loose on him now like a hand-me-down shirt, and Sam is consumed by the surreal and by the sublime when Dean reaches way down inside him and a spark ignites like a newborn star.

 

He's making the most inappropriate noises. He can't stop himself. There is a disconnect between his mouth and his mind; he wishes he could short-circuit the babble, but he has given himself over to Dean completely, and Dean's mouth is on him again and relentless, and those work-rough, calloused fingers – the ones that have soothed and protected and provided for Sam his entire life – aren't near enough anymore inside him. Sam's a fucking animal.

 

And yet nothing, not even the primitive connection he feels to the entire universe right now and all the history of creation, can prepare him for what comes.

 

“Sammy.”

 

It's an intolerable weight, this waiting. He can hear himself begging, and really? Begging? But Sam has begged for Dean before. On his behalf, more specifically. Not quite the same thing at all. But in the end it's all and still just _DeanDeanDean_...

 

“Sammy.”

 

His legs are killing him. It's the best thing he's ever felt, and for a second he allows his focus to collapse into the strain and stress against his quadriceps, and fuck if he couldn't linger in that sweet agony forever, but there's the matter of his cock, too, which is painfully hard and woefully neglected and that's because...? Oh, sure, yeah, it's because Dean is saying something. His lips are moving above Sam, and that means they're not closed around his cock or open around his... whatever, he's talking. And Sam should be listening. Probably? He's pretty sure.

 

“Sammy.”

 

“Yeah, Dean?” Christ, is that his own voice? Is that what he sounds like out loud? Ha!

 

“Do you want this?” There is a strangely melancholic, reflective undertone to Dean's voice, and Sam doesn't like it. In fact he hates it. In fact he wants to kill it. A question like that has no place intruding upon a moment like this. Sometimes he can't help but wonder just what the hell his brother's problem is. But a meaningful tug on his cock brings his mind into line again, front and center with militaristic alacrity and precision, and he has no other choice but to say the silliest thing that comes to mind, because it's the first, and it's all he can muster at this point.

 

“Dean? There is nothing but this. Just. Fuck. Come here. No, closer, so I can really feel you.”

 

Maybe not so silly. Maybe a gaping chasm of honest vulnerability. Fucking Dean.

 

It feels so angular and strange to be coaxing Dean like this. Dean the leader. Dean the frontiersman, really. He would have killed it as a pioneer, subtly bending a harsh new world to his indomitable will. And yet here he is stumbling over himself to take Sam – and isn't that downright peculiar, because Sam was always his to begin with.

 

But Sam can oblige him and direct him and support him – in those rare and devastating moments (of which this is one), when his pomp and bluster fail – with everything that he is. That is something Sam can do.

 

So he gathers Dean into his arms and kisses his lips soundly, without hesitation, and it's like they've been doing it for years, and God knows Sam wishes they had. Dean folds. He draws one rattling breath and then just caves in Sam's strong grasp, and for a while they lay against one another, hands roving everywhere, relearning bodies that might have been, in another lifetime, so familiar, lips traversing strange ground, staking claim wherever need be, causing pain from time to time but never, ever harm.

 

They soothe one another in this quiet way for a sweet, eternal space of time, and then Sam's need boils up and overcomes him again, and Dean has no choice but to meet it, to stifle it, because Dean is the perfect foil to all of the awful urges that arise in his little brother. To all of the sweet, sentimental ones, too.

 

So when Sam finally mutters, “Dean,” in that voice that means he's ready, that he's done waiting and that it's really, really time they got on with the show, his brother is there for him. Like he always has been. To lift him up, to slide up under him and carry his weight and whisper in his ear. Even Dean's voice, now, is a soothing lullaby to the fearsome need in him. And he should be terrified by how savagely he wants this, but all fear and hesitation are vanquished by the golden glow of Dean as he aligns himself with Sam and pushes slowly inside.

 

It is an aching, overwhelming completion. The drink in Sam's system plays a passive and pathetic second fiddle to the intoxicating feeling of this union. He can feel tears forming, and holy shit, he'll never live this down, but he won't play the coward and kowtow to the pleasure that commands him to shut his eyes and turn his face away and just compartmentalize all this confusing shit and deal with it another time.

 

Dean wouldn't. He knows that because Dean isn't. Which is why their eyes are locked on one another, and that heated, too meaningful gaze is broken only sporadically, and only by Dean as he skims, hummingbird-quick, across an all new understanding of his little brother. He is adjusting the way he sees him, now. Taking in the long, loaded strength in his arms, his abs. Assessing and cataloguing the proportional heft of Sam's cock, grabbing it, running his palm up along its length and groaning wheezily as Sam sighs in response. But mostly they stare. They moan and steal the breath from one another's lungs in craven kisses. Sam cries out on every inward thrust, and Dean occassionally smiles when he does that, the fathomless depths of his eyes glowing outward, supernova, sparkling with joy and affection.

 

Sam has never experienced anything so cataclysmic in his entire life. Not even the Blood was as strong inside him as Dean is now. Nowhere near. Neither of them are what they once were; they are compelled by this new thing. Sam can feel every hard inch of Dean moving inside him, and it's painful and deeply unfamiliar, but so, _so_ good. The dry friction devastates him, remakes him, and before the altar of discomfort in the act of being owned, and the utterly utopic gratification that is being fucked by Dean, Sam hardly breathes, hardly thinks – just prays and groans and mutters a silent homage to all the angels in Heaven (even the ones he knows, and that's kinda gross, but still a fleeting, disparate distraction from the compelling sensuality of the brother he has never, ever really known until this moment), and Dean is right there with him. The same prayer silently recalled. Not Sunday school, like most boys, but something else.

 

It's overwhelming, the immaculate unification Sam feels in this moment – with Dean hard and long and swelling inside of him – and Sam is trying hard not to think about what Lucifer would say if he saw his meatsuit thusly defiled, and it's easy, really, not to think about him, because what might the very devil offer that could dissaude Sam from coming hard as his brother pushes up inside him and thrusts against his prostate and just _shouts_ – because really, fucking his Sammy is a wonder, and Sam never realised it before, but he can now as he nears orgasm and Dean pumps into him, above and adrift and untouchable, as always, but also tangible and concrete and _rough_ , and fuck sake, how many Deans exist in Sam's reality, after all? 

 

There are more facets of his brother than he ever conceived of or wondered at. More ways in which his brother could growl in perfect release and pray and whisper invaluable nonsense into the lobe of Sam's ear as he comes and comes and shudders and his body is tense and shaking – and for a brief, tiny moment, Dean's physicality is effortless and unbridled, and it's been years – no, forever – since Sam has seen him so unguarded and joyful.

 

Sam feels profoundly honoured by this vision of Dean, and it's excruciatingly beautiful. That look in his brother's eyes alone, really, is enough to fire him up, raze the last vestiges of his self-control, and there it is, all colour and light spiraling outwards and he's coming hard, his body tense and shaking like a rag doll beneath Dean's merciless thrusting.

 

The temptation to lose himself to this moment, as his spent cock twitches on his stomach and his hot come splatters across his chest, is great, but Sam wrangles his awareness back into tight focus because there is one thing – only one thing in this world – better than the orgasm he's riding now, and that is the helpless adoration in Dean's eyes above him as he succumbs to the muscles clenching around him and shuddering below him and reaches his own release deep inside Sam's body.

 

And Sam can feel the wetness flooding him in time with every beat of Dean's heart, and he holds his right hand there, pressing hard, and the rhythm of Dean's life force is so strong Sam is sure he could see it beating right through his chest, but he can't look, can't shift his gaze and break eye contact, because they are each lost to one another right now, unblinking, Dean moving his hips in lazy circles, Sam shifting and tightening his body, coaxing the last of his brother's come and savouring the way their breathing syncs up and smooths out and finally, after a small eternity, Sam is aware of Dean's lips moving, and yeah, he's saying something.

 

And it's, “Sammy. Sammy. _Sammy_.” That makes him smile, and he can finally close his eyes against the blinding perfection that is his brother. Dean pulls out, which is a catastrophic loss, but probably for the best, because an instant later he crashes down onto Sam's chest with a quaking sigh, and Sam chuckles and pulls him close.

 

“Dean?” He doesn't really want to talk about this. Not right now. But he just sort of needs to hear Dean's voice.

 

“Mm?”

 

Not really an answer, but at least Dean's still with him. Here. 

 

He pulls the covers up around them and draws his foot up against Dean's calf, squeezing him hard, drawing in the scent of sweat and fresh hair gel and nuzzling at his temple a bit, nipping at his ear, and he's so broken open and laid bare and utterly satisfied, he can hardly believe it's not enough, but he knows it isn't. Never will be again. So he's not trying to start something just yet; he's happy to hold his brother and snatch a few winks before dawn. But he runs his hands along Dean's ribcage anyway, ghostlike, hums a bit, anticipatory, wanting, just so Dean knows. So he's ready. Because this _so_ isn't over.

 

And Dean. Well. Dean, for his part, lifts up a bit, redistributes his weight against one elbow, glances up at Sam purposefully, and there's that same dark heat there as before, muted, resting, but calculating, too, and he dips down to lick a drop of Sam's cooling come off of his collarbone.

 

“ _Sammy_ ,” he mutters, and fuck. Yeah.


End file.
